


Missus Lily

by honeybun, Sabo (Sabou)



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: 20s au, Bear!David, Dee works in a cabaret, Feminization, M/M, Possessive Behavior, femboy!Dee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabo
Summary: David had wondered if Dee would be different off stage, if he’d suddenly be like a normal boy - or a boy at all. However when Dee first answers the door, he’s in his housecoat, curlers set in and lashes dark and long from mascara.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	Missus Lily

Dee presses his lips together a little, legs tangling where he stands, leaning up against the doorjam as Mr. David blocks out the light from the corridor. 

They found themselves like this most nights, Diarmuid bidding goodnight only when he couldn’t possibly stay any longer, only when the morning chorus had begun and he knew the large man in front of him would have to be back in work again soon. 

‘Goodnight, David,’ he’d whisper, dressing gown allowed to sink just a little lower on his shoulder, eyes heavy lidded, a hand on David’s arm soft but warm with pressure, ‘Until later.’

Usually David, with his hands held firmly behind his back, will duck his head low and mumble goodnight. Won’t overstep any, but that changes rather quickly.

He’s always loved coming into Dee’s dressing room at work, where girls and boys alike rush around in ruffled things, material floating out behind them. He’d been in plenty of times, admitted by Dee or some other performer who shared the space, and once or twice when he was alone and wanted to stare unwatched at the things cluttering Dee’s vanity. There is powder and lipstick and mascara cake, there’s glitter and confetti and streamers, a large mirror with pictures and postcards tacked on the side. 

When he breathes it in, it’s heady, almost like a puff of strong smoke in your lungs. It smells of vanilla, violets, sandalwood and citrus. Dee concentrated. The clothes hung up on a rack all move together as various people travel past quickly. 

He should have known that Dee’s apartment would be no different, even worse if you might call it that. He’s only seen slivers of it from the door, lapping up the scene hungrily. There is a powder blue couch, usually strewn across it are varying colours of kimono, silk scarves hung up by the door, shoes all piling up haphazardly. It feels so like Dee, but here is a place he has yet to cross the threshold of, to be invited in, allowed into this sacred space, where Dee retreats to. 

He wonders if he prefers to be alone, or whether he’s lonely here. He’d rather think of him without anyone else in the apartment, so he likes to dream that Dee is happy like that, reading and listening to the radio and doing the silly little crafts he sometimes tells David about. He hopes it’s special for Dee too when he comes to visit, that it isn’t a nuisance, or an endeavour to get something from him. He doesn’t believe it is, that it ever would be with a sweet thing like Dee, who could never knowingly mislead anyone in his life. 

Dee doesn’t admit him, but each visit the door is opened a crack wider, allowing David to see more of this special place, sometimes the smell of sweet baking wafts towards David, other times it’s the soft sound of the radio, he listens to see which station Dee prefers. 

The other thing which just kills David is how he is when he’s home. Because David had wondered if it would be different, if he’d suddenly be like a normal boy - or a boy at all. However when Dee first answers the door, David dropping off something or another, he’s in his housecoat, curlers set in and lashes dark and long from mascara. He feels himself turn into a puddle on the floor, an ache in his stomach start to form. The thought that Dee doesn’t do this because it’s a job- but because he wishes to, floods David with a feeling he can’t quite describe yet. 

It then becomes routine for David to stop by after work, the guise of checking on Dee not much a guise, but just a good excuse. Dee would answer and they’d talk until dawn, David taking his fill of Dee’s seemingly endless feminine clothing options. 

Until, that is, when David comes to the door as usual, cap in hand and stomach tense with excitement, that something changes. Dee is a little later to answer than he’s used to, frown setting in, but then he hears the sound of Dee’s voice - peculiar - the shared laughter. 

His nose twitches, he begins to squeeze the cap in his hands.

When Dee answers the door, he is in one of his light green kimonos, the neck always goes a little low on him, but just to the left of Dee’s shoulder, sitting awkwardly on the power blue sofa is a man he’s never seen before. He’s large and he looks like he’s been sweating, letter in hand, rumpled and stained with sweaty finger marks, much like some of the indecent mail Dee received that David had chosen to secretly deal with himself. 

‘Who’s this, Dee?’ he doesn’t hesitate to ask.

‘Uh- Oh, Dovi, could you, um- come back later?’

‘No,’ comes his reply, clear as day. He isn’t sure when he moved forward a little, but now he’s staring at the figure of the man on the sofa while Dee looks at him a little bewildered, eyebrow quirking.

‘Alright, would you like to come in?’ Dee asks, sighing, already opening the door and ushering David into his apartment. 

He will regret it later, that this was the grounds of his arrival into the epicentre of Dee’s softness, but it was  _ just _ \- a cause for concern, he’ll remind Dee scoldingly, later. 

Dee goes to the tiny kitchenette and pours David a coffee from the pot resting on the stove, while David goes to sit on a larger leather armchair which he’d not yet observed from the door. 

Despite the jealousy, the outright possession that ripped through him, he still took time to take in the scenery, the place he’d wanted to see for such a long time now. 

The man named Jacob looks bereft and keeps smoothing out the letter in his hands, David wonders if Dee has rejected him. Whether David is just a string of others. 

The apartment is small, but clean. There are scarves and clothes strung around the place like colourful banners, a shoe left dangling in a flower pot, roses bursting from a small cheerful looking vase. The roses look like they came from the club, one of the high rollers, the vase though, is Dee’s. 

He can hear Dee humming, the spoon tapping against the cup as he makes David’s coffee. 

‘I just- what do I do, Dee?’ The man looks up, watery eyed, barely even registering David’s presence, and starts babbling.

‘Oh, sugar, I’m sure she’ll come round,’ mumbles Dee, setting down David’s cup and going to pet the fat, clammy hand that holds the crumpled letter.

While relieved the motivations of Jacob are somewhat revealed, he still doesn’t like it - that petting - that soft touch he wants to covetously keep all for  _ himself _ . 

After some consoling, the man leaves, and David gulps down scalding hot coffee to ease the sting of his own jealousy, Dee ultimately ignoring him until he closes the door.

‘Well, David, you have me all to yourself now, is that what you wanted?’ Dee asks, voice quiet but teasing, the tone making David’s eyes bulge and his chest puff out.

‘I was just checking you were alright-’ explains David through gritted teeth, but Dee looks at him with an eyebrow raised as he sits carefully on the armrest of David’s chair.

He sips daintily from a teacup, ‘Well, as you can see, I’m just fine,’ Dee mutters into his teacup, taking another sip, ‘So you may go, if you please,’ Dee’s eyes flash, knowing and delighted in cornering David. In making him accept that his feelings might be a little on the brutish side. That he might just accept them himself if David owns up to it, that being brutish wouldn’t be so bad if, at least, you were truthful. 

David’s fingers twitch on the rung of his mug of coffee, his arms jerk a little as he sits ramrod straight in the chair, nostrils still flaring and picking up sweet lavender, vanilla bean, tonka. 

‘You can have a look around, if you’d like,’ suggests Dee, voice quiet and tempting, like smooth liquor. As he gets up, his hands trail along David’s sleeve, and leave him aching. 

Dee’s rooms are just as David had imagined, hundreds, thousands of times. Filled with all sorts of curiosities, with clothes and sweets in jars and paintings. It delights him when Dee tells him in an intimate sort of way that these clothes are for home, fanning a hand over them, metal hangers clinking together, ‘Not like in the club, no, no...’

They’re frilly things, soft colours, in cashmere and silk. David stops himself just short of admitting they’re the sorts of things he would like to imagine his wife wearing, should he have the money. 

By Dee’s small - blessedly single - bed, there is a strand of pearls glinting softly in the light. 

‘You don’t mind if I take a bath, do you, David?’ Dee asks, voice growing a little less teasing, a little more tired, soft. David wants to cradle him, to tell him he doesn’t need that wicked crack of wit with him, that he can be soft, here, not playing, not acting, that David will treasure it, hold that softness in capable hands and allow it to breathe.

David shakes his head, nods, clears his throat and very eloquently says, ‘Alright.’

He sits stiffly on the armchair and listens as wet splashing sounds haunt him, dancing around his ears, the occasional echo of humming assaulting him.

Dee at one point calls to him, ‘Please would you pass me my robe, David?’ The creamy thing rests on the foot of his bed, forgotten there presumably.

David fetches it, closes his eyes and carefully pokes a hand through, ‘Could you pass it to me?’ Dee mumbles, sounding far too small, far too breakable and perfect.

David steps inside of the bathroom, skin flushed already before the steam hits him, eyes squeezed shut.

‘You can open your eyes, you know, David,’ whispers Dee, the suggestion bounding around the tiles and into David’s head, so strange he can’t be sure his own imagination hasn’t come to life.

Dee is resting his head, a tumble of curls, on top of knobbly small knees, little bruises on his legs from dance practice this week, arms wrapping around the tops of them. 

He looks so small like this, so vulnerable. David wonders whether Dee has ever shown himself like this to anyone else, whether anyone has ever been allowed to see Dee without the makeup and the heels and the feathers, just nude like this, as startlingly pretty as ever, just a boy, just a sweet feminine thing. 

David lets himself look, Dee had asked him to anyway, but his eyes do not rake up and down Dee’s body like he is fearful of, of making Dee like this into some object of desire, instead his eyes remain fixed on Dee’s, tender, waiting. 

Dee steps out of the bath, and up, into the embrace of his robe, and consequently, into David’s arms.

‘It’s lucky you came after all,’ comments Dee, yawning and now with a mug of camomile tea, ‘Perhaps I do need a strong man to guard my door.’

David isn’t sure why this strange affirmation, this trust, something which clearly means so much to Dee, given as if it doesn’t, makes his chest swell as it does. 

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written by honeybun for me as a birthday present.


End file.
